


Sherlock's Problem

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Explicit Sexual Content, Honesty, Love, M/M, Series 1, Sherlock Kicks Out John, Sherlock's Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:17:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: Sherlock has a problem and its name is John Watson.





	1. Sherlock's Problem

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. **We hope you'll subscribe.**
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments. They mean a lot -- sometimes they inspire new ideas and works, sometimes they just make us feel all warm inside. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and liking and being a great community!

Sherlock had spent almost every minute of every hour of the last few weeks debating how to handle his problem. He even counted the rare occasions he slept as time spent, since the problem kept showing up in his dreams. He couldn't go on like this much longer: all of his energy -- energy that should have been spent solving cases, reading, even eating and sleeping properly -- was being given to the problem. He had to do something.

He glanced at the clock, knowing he had a little over an hour until John got back from the surgery. That was cutting it close but perhaps the pressure would help. He got up and moved to his desk, opening his laptop before closing it quickly. Too formal. He dug through his drawers and found some paper. He grabbed a pen and began to write.

_John,_  
_I am extremely grateful that we met and that you agreed to work with me. And live with me as well, which I suppose came before the work. Regardless, I have found your presence in my life to be incredibly useful. I need you to know that._  
_However, something has changed recently, which makes it difficult for me to continue to live and work with you, and I need you to know this as well._  
_I have fallen in love with you. I'm certain this comes as quite a shock: most people, perhaps even yourself, believe me to be incapable of any emotion at all, let alone one as complex as love. Even more surprising to you particularly must be the fact that I am confessing this to you knowing your strong view on homosexuality -- that there's nothing wrong with it for others, but it is clearly not_

Sherlock paused and closed his eyes. In his head, he heard John's voice saying "I'm not gay." He heard the words over and over -- thirty four times in fact. Thirty four times he'd heard John say those words. That must mean something. It must.

Sherlock looked down at the paper again. No, this was not the way to go. A stupid handwritten confession of love was not going to solve this problem. He crumpled the piece of paper, took it over to the sink, and lit it on fire. When it was almost entirely ash, he turned on the tap and let the water wash it down the drain. He moved back to his desk and pulled out another piece of paper.

_John,_  
_I am extremely grateful that we met and that you agreed to work with me. And live with me as well, which I suppose came before the work. Regardless, I have found your presence in my life to be incredibly useful. I need you to know that._  
_However, something has changed recently, which makes it difficult for me to continue to live and work with you, and I need you to know this as well._  
_I'm afraid I need to end our partnership, both personally and professionally. As it has only been a few months, I assume you will readjust quickly enough. I would prefer to stay in the flat and take over your half of the rent. Perhaps you could stay at Sarah's until you find a permanent home? I do not wish to be unreasonable, though, so I offer a compromise: you can have the flat for a week while you make arrangements. When I return next Monday, I expect you to be gone._  
_SH_

He read the letter twice. This was the only way to make the problem go away. He slid it into an envelope and placed it in the centre of the kitchen table. He packed some clothing and a few of his things into his bag and left the flat. He stopped at Mrs Hudson's and told her he was going to visit his parents, before explaining that Dr Watson would be leaving the flat in a week. She was surprised but saw on his face that any question she might have would not receive any answers. He assured her he would return and would be able to pay the full rent. Then he got in a taxi and sent his brother a text.

_I will be staying with you for a week. No explanation will be forthcoming. SH_


	2. John's Problem

What a day at the surgery. Two doctors had called off, and John and Sarah had to run the things on their own. It was madness. John was aching, hungry, and eager to get home. For the first time in a while he was hoping Sherlock wouldn't have a case. The thought of having to run around London all night made him want to curl into the alley and catch whatever sleep he could. When he walked in, he called out for Sherlock. He hung his jacket and moved into the kitchen to find some food. Then he saw the letter. He opened it and read, his brow furrowing more and more with each sentence. He called out for Sherlock again. He moved through the flat, checked every room, looked for signs of kidnapping but everything looked normal. The same. He took out his phone and called Sherlock. It went to voicemail. He tried again but the same thing happened, so he sent a text.

_Call me now. -JW_

He stuffed his phone into his pocket and went down to find Mrs Hudson. "Where's Sherlock?"

She wouldn't let him into her flat. John tried looking behind her. "I thought you were different," she said with an attitude. 

"What are you talking about?" John asked. "Where's Sherlock? Is he here?"

"When you leave don't forget anything -- we won't be mailing it."

"Leave? I'm not leaving," John said 

"Don't bother. Sherlock already explained before he left."

"He's kicking me out!" John said, waving the letter at her. Her brows furrowed, but he didn't stick around to explain. He stormed back up and tried calling Mycroft. No answer. John swore loudly and sent Sherlock another text.

_I'm not leaving. Call me. -JW_


	3. Apart

Sherlock was sitting alone in Mycroft's flat when John's calls and texts began to arrive. He silenced his phone and got up to pour himself another drink. Mycroft arrived back from work and looked at his brother. Sherlock said nothing. Mycroft went into his bedroom and shut the door.

John paced the flat for a long time. Mrs Hudson came up and now wanted some answers, but John didn't have any to give her. He didn't understand. Was Sherlock angry John had been spending time at work? Didn't Sherlock realise John only had this job because of him -- Sherlock brought him out of that dark place he had settled into since coming back from the war. He couldn't be a surgeon, but he could work in an office and not feel bitter about it. His leg was better -- Sherlock had done all of that. Why would he be sending John away now? 

John continued pacing back and forth, wracking his brain. Sherlock wasn't calling, and he wasn't answering his texts. He went through waves of worry and anger and sadness and then back around again. Eventually he sank down on the sofa. He was exhausted. He was hungry and couldn't make himself get up to eat. He felt a bit scared. If this was real -- if Sherlock was really sending him away -- how long would it be before he slipped into that dark place again?

He covered his face with his hands. No. He couldn't think like that. They would sort out whatever this was about. In the morning, he would call Sherlock again and they would fix this.

Sherlock sat on the sofa and stared into nothing. A few hours later, he'd almost emptied Mycroft's whiskey bottle. He pushed himself up, doing his best to keep himself steady, and walked to Mycroft's room. He tapped lightly on the door and mumbled, "I'm going to bed."

Mycroft opened the door and looked at his brother. "Just the whiskey?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes," Sherlock repeated. "Just the whiskey. Nothing else." He sloppily drew a cross over his heart and mumbled, ". . .hope to die . . . stick a needle in my eye."

Mycroft stepped forward and put an arm around Sherlock, leading him to the other bedroom and helping him get into bed. "Tomorrow, we talk," he said. "Do not leave this flat without my permission." He closed the bedroom door and went into the other room to turn off the lights. He saw Sherlock's phone and stopped, but decided to leave it be for now. 

When Sherlock woke up, he lifted his hand to his head. It ached. He wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted to sleep for a week, until his headache was gone, until John was gone. He needed to go back to how he was before John arrived and made Sherlock love him.

He pushed himself up and a few minutes later, he stood up. He opened the door and Mycroft was standing there.

"Jesus, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "You scared me."

"You scared me, brother," Mycroft said. "What is this about?"

Sherlock pushed by him. "I need to sit," he said and made his way to the sofa. He ignored his phone but glanced over at the whiskey bottle.

"It's not even noon, Sherlock -- no," Mycroft said. "Now tell me what is happening."

"Nothing," Sherlock said stupidly before continuing. "It didn't work out with John. I mean, he was helpful on the cases but . . . you know, it didn't work out."

"I see," Mycroft said in a way that Sherlock knew meant this conversation was not over.

"It was . . . too much," Sherlock said. "You know me -- I'm not a social person. I'm not . . . into friendship."

"So you say," Mycroft said. He stood up and returned with a cup of tea. "It was hot when I made it," he said as he set the cup down and returned to his chair. "Continue."

"I don't think I can live with John Watson anymore," Sherlock said plainly. 

"That's it?" Mycroft asked.

"That's it," Sherlock said and took a drink of the cold tea.

"And your plan is . . .?" 

"I've asked John to leave the flat. I'll stay here for a week until he goes. If he refuses to leave, I'll find somewhere else to live," Sherlock said.

"And your work?" 

"I'm on a break," Sherlock said. "When this is sorted, I'll return. When this is sorted, everything will be as it was."

"I have no more questions," Mycroft said as he stood up. "I'm needed elsewhere and will not be back until late. You won't be going outside the flat today. No explanation for that rule will be forthcoming." He got up and a little while later he left the flat.

After he heard the door close, Sherlock sat in the silence for a few moments and then stood up to pour himself a drink.

When John woke up, he was sore from being on the sofa all night. "Sherlock?" he called out, but there was no reply. It wasn't a dream. He got up and slowly got ready for work. All he had to do was get through the day and when he came home, Sherlock would be back. He had to be back. Mrs. Hudson had brought up tea, looking around nervously.

It was another long day, especially because John couldn't focus. He was misdiagnosing, he wasn't listening, patients were getting angry. When he took his break for lunch, he sent Mycroft a text.

_Your brother is gone. -JW_

Mycroft had asked John to look out for him once. Maybe this would scare him into a reply. 

_He's safe. -MH_

John dialed his number, but there was no answer. He swore loudly into the voicemail. "Answer me, damn it!" He slid his phone across the desk, trying to take a deep breath and calm down. His doctoring was even more abysmal after lunch. He went home early. He paced, he called Sherlock, he called Mycroft, he even tried Molly. He was up for a long time again, falling asleep on the sofa. 

It wasn't until the next day that Sherlock was able to look at his phone again. He deleted the messages from John. He skipped the notifications from their blog. He read a short message from Lestrade, asking for Sherlock's help. He knew the answer and quickly sent the information with a note explaining that he was out of town but would get in touch when he got back to London. He turned off his phone and turned on the television.

John was off the next day. He left the flat and went searching for Sherlock. He passed through the park, the morgue, the alleys his homeless network frequented, the drug dens he managed to get addresses of, Mycroft's office (but he was out), and finally the Yard. Lestrade was out on a case, and it hurt John's heart to think Sherlock was out working without him. 

"I told you, Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends," Sally said as John left. He had no choice but to make his way home again. His leg was aching, a soft burn in his thigh. His eyes welled up, and he tried to push the thought away. No. He was better. He had to be. 

Sherlock finally found the courage to pick up his phone again. He rang Mrs Hudson.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?" she asked worriedly.

"Has he gone yet?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't understand what's happened," she said. "He doesn't understand."

"Is he still there?"

"Yes," she said. "Just come home and we'll sort it all out."

"I'll be back when he's gone," Sherlock said. "I'm all right, though. I'm all right," he added quickly before hanging up. He turned off his phone and shoved it under the mattress of the bed.

The next morning John simply called off work. There was an emergency, he'd said. He didn't know where else to go. He didn't know who else to talk to, what else to do. Mrs Hudson brought lunch, looking even more nervous. John studied her as she talked about useless things. "You've talked to him, haven't you?" he interrupted. He didn't have the energy to sound angry. 

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "He . . . he won't come home until you leave."

John swallowed hard and stood, going up to his room. His leg hurt the whole way up and he swore, picking up his cane and chucking it across the room. He heard Mrs Hudson jump downstairs, but he didn't care. He was angry. In that moment, he hated Sherlock. 

Sherlock woke up from a deep sleep, sitting up sharply and lifting his hand to his chest. He couldn't breathe. He took a few gasps, begging the air to get into his lungs. He looked around the room. He turned on the light. There was nothing on the bedside table, not even a glass. It was four in the morning. He was at Mycroft's, he was safe. Whatever had scared him had just been a dream. He kept the light on but leaned back against the pillow. He closed his eyes but didn't sleep. He got up when he heard Mycroft moving around. He made them both a cup of tea, but Mycroft shook his head at Sherlock's offer and left for work. Sherlock tipped away Mycroft's tea and took his own into the other room, drinking it as he stared at the television.


	4. John Leaves, Sherlock Returns

"I've talked to him, but I don't know where he is. What happened?"

John looked over at Greg, shaking his head. "I don't know. I came home and he'd left a letter." He sighed heavily. "I don't know."

"I'll try to get more out of him when we talk again. It just doesn't make sense. I've never seen him take to anyone like he did to you."

John flushed lightly, squeezing the glass of whiskey in his hands. "He was . . ." his voice trailed off. Everything. Sherlock was everything, and John didn't know how to be anymore.

On Sunday, Sherlock got up and left early. He went to a nearby churchyard and sat on a bench in the garden, closing his eyes against the sunshine. When he heard people beginning to arrive for services, he got up and walked back to Mycroft's.

John called off work again. He packed his things, the few he had brought to the flat, while Mrs Hudson hovered around and tried to convince him not to go. But he had no choice. If he didn't leave, Sherlock would never come back. He didn't mention he couldn't afford the rent on his own, but they both knew that. Sherlock knew that. He felt a spike of anger again, and he started packing faster. He needed to leave. He thanked Mrs. Hudson for everything she had done and promised to keep in touch. He knew he would never come back here -- not where he would have to see Sherlock. He couldn't.

He went back to his old bedsit, his old room hadn't was still empty. He sat on the bed and looked around. He covered his face as the tears came again. His chest felt heavy and hollow all at once.

When Sherlock woke up, he said aloud "Everything is back to how it was." He'd been repeating it in his head for a few days, so much so the phrase had appeared in his dreams, but today was the day it was happening. He got up, showered and dressed, and threw his things back into his bag, which he carried out and set on the table. He made two cups of tea, despite the fact he knew Mycroft wouldn't drink his, and stood at the window watching the street below.

"You're leaving me today," Mycroft said as he emerged from his room. It wasn't quite a question or a statement of fact.

Sherlock turned around. "Yes," he said. "Today, everything is back to how it was."

Mycroft made the slightest of nods and left the flat. Sherlock finished his tea, washed the two mugs, and got a taxi to Baker Street.

He paused at the front door and then let himself in, stopping at Mrs Hudson's before going upstairs.

"Sherl--" she started as she opened the door.

"No," he said flatly. "I'm very rushed and only have time for one question: has he left?"

She glanced up the stairs and then looked at Sherlock's face. "Yes," she said though she wanted to say more.

"Thank you," he said as he turned away. "Everything is good, Mrs Hudson. I'm back to work and have much to do." He slid his key into the look and pushed open the door. He hung up his coat, dropped his bag and turned to look around.

John was gone. What was their home now felt empty. Sherlock went to his bedroom, fell onto his bed and sobbed.

When John woke up in his flat, he assumed he was still stuck in the nightmare, a false wake up that would plunge him deeper into despair before it was really time to get up. He heard no pacing. No gunfire. No boiling (tea or otherwise). But there was no jolt of second awakening. This was it. He sat up slowly and looked around. Out of habit he reached for his cane before he remembered he didn't need it anymore. He got up to make himself tea and then remembered he didn't have any. He got ready and went out to do some shopping, sticking close to the flat.

As John wandered the aisles, he didn't know how much to buy. A small part of him was sure that Sherlock would come back for him. But there were no messages, no calls, no anything -- just like that he was alone again. He forced himself to accept it. He shopped properly, filling his kitchen for days worth of food. He tried to convince himself of positives. Things wouldn't be rotting in his fridge. He could sleep normal hours. He wouldn't miss work. He huffed out a sarcastic laugh at himself. The pros were empty. Hollow.

John resisted calling Sarah and taking the week off. He went to work like he was supposed to. He fell into a routine. A boring routine. The nightmares returned. He ignored the pang in his leg. He hated everything about this flat. About this decision. He swelled from sadness to anger again. He hated Sherlock for not giving him a choice. A proper explanation.

Sherlock stayed in his bed for three days, ignoring his phone and the knocking at his door, which he assumed belonged to Mrs Hudson. Eventually he dragged himself up and into a cold shower. He got dressed and then moved to the kitchen, clicking on the kettle before realising he had no milk. He grabbed his coat and opened the door to see Mrs Hudson standing there.

"I was worried," she said.

"No need," he said, not meeting her eye. "I've been working but I've run out of milk."

"You're lying," she said softly. "Let me help you, Sherlock."

"No need," he repeated. "Back soon," he added as he pushed past her.

When he returned, Sherlock sat down at his desk and opened his laptop. He was going to go back to work. For real. But he caught the sight of John's chair out of the corner of his eye, so he got up and dragged it upstairs, pushing it into John's room -- the spare room -- without looking inside. He moved back to his desk but then found himself looking up towards John's door -- the spare room's door, he corrected himself again. It was too distracting. He got up, grabbed some tools, and pulled a bedsheet out of a cupboard. He tacked it above the door frame and then pushed some old boxes in front of it. He sat down again, but couldn't make himself look at the blog. Instead he sent an text to Lestrade telling him he was back and ready to work. Then he poured himself a drink and lay down on the sofa where he couldn't see the place where John used to be.

John texted Lestrade when he felt himself spiralling into loneliness. So he didn't have Sherlock. That didn't mean he didn't have other friends. He would just have to be careful about when he saw Greg and Molly. Greg agreed to meet for lunch. They had a good time. He talked about his cases, with no mentions of Sherlock, and John talked about what he could of his own work. He realized he hadn't checked of updated the blog since Sherlock had left. He wondered what would happen to it now. Would Sherlock continue to use it? He doubted he could use it as his safe place any more. When Greg checked his phone and an uncomfortable looked flashed on his face, John knew it was Sherlock. He made his excuses and left, going back to his small flat alone. His eyes burned again, and he pressed the heels of his hands into them.

Sherlock sat up sharply, spilling what was left of his drink onto his shirt. Someone was at his door. This knock wasn't Mrs Hudson's. It wasn't a knock at all actually, it was a pounding. He got up and opened the door to Lestrade.

"What the hell is going on, Sherlock?" Lestrade said as he came in.

"I'm back," Sherlock said, wiping at his shirt. "Have you got something for me?"

Greg looked around, noticing the sheet but not acknowledging it. He turned to face Sherlock. "What is wrong with you?" he asked. His tone was a mix of anger and concern.

"Nothing," Sherlock said. "Now," he added quietly.

"Don't do that, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "I know you -- I've seen you at your worst -- so don't play games with me."

Sherlock sturdied his face and body and said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

And that's when Greg saw it. He should've known really -- this was the one thing he should've figured out before Sherlock Holmes did. But he hadn't, once again Sherlock had beaten him to it. Jesus, Greg thought, this must be killing him.

"Sorry," Greg said softly. "Sorry -- just wanted to make sure you were back and really ready, I guess. Good, good." He turned and moved toward the door. "I'll call you, yeah, as soon as I've got something. You call me too . . . if you need anything."

"I still don't know what you mean," Sherlock said. "I'm bored though . . . I'm here so call."

"Will do," Lestrade said and closed the door behind him.

When he got to the bottom of the steps, Mrs Hudson opened her door. "Is he all right?" she whispered.

"No," Greg said. "He doesn't have the slightest idea what to do. I know what's going on. You do, too, don't you?" he asked.

"I think I do," she said.

"Well, we can't let it continue," he said. "Keep an eye on him and I'll get this sorted tomorrow."


	5. Reunited

John opened the blog. There were twenty three messages. Most of them were asking for more cases. A few were offering their own cases. Sherlock hadn't posted anything. He hadn't answered any messages. It hurt John's heart to think Sherlock hadn't thought twice about it. About John. He needed closure and he didn't know how to get it. Despite throwing himself into work and various distractions he couldn't stop wondering why. He couldn't stop trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. He was tired. He was having nightmares worse than ever, this time including twisting stories he never remembered with Sherlock mixed into them. 

For the first time since he'd returned, Sherlock took his phone with him when he climbed into bed. Lestrade would call him tomorrow. He would. He would have a case and Sherlock would solve it and life would be like it was before John Watson came into his world and turned it upside down.

He rolled over on his side and stared at the pillow beside him. When he first realised his feelings, he'd hoped one day to wake up and see John lying there beside him. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better.

Lestrade did not disappoint. Sherlock was still asleep when his phone rang. Lestrade spat out an address and a time and hung up. Sherlock glanced at the clock. He had an hour. He got up and made a cup of tea before he got ready. This was better.

John was snapped out of his nightmare by a ringing. He fumbled around for the phone, saying Sherlock's name aloud before his eyes processed the name on the screen. It was Greg. "Hello?" His voice was a bit hoarse. He must have been calling out. Greg was telling him about a case, giving him an address. "No, Greg, no. I'm not coming to a crime scene. I don't -- what would I do there?" 

"Look, you need to get out. Just swing by. It's an easy one. Boring."

John wondered if that was his way of saying Sherlock wouldn't be there. "Right. I'll see you in a bit," John said, getting up to get dressed. He headed out to make his way to the scene.

Sherlock grimaced at Anderson and Donovan as he passed, which actually made him feel like smiling on the inside. He lifted the tape and slid himself under, going inside the building to find Lestrade, who walked Sherlock into the bedroom and let him look over the body on the bed.

When John arrived, Donovan and Anderson glanced at each other and grinned. John ignored them and headed into the building. 

Sherlock was bent over the body, looking closely into its cold eyes. And then everything in the room changed. He sensed it -- for a split second, he didn't understand but then he knew. He turned his head slightly and saw John. John Watson -- his best friend whom he still loved and still wanted to be with forever. The time, the separation -- they hadn't taken that feeling away from Sherlock.

He looked back at the body. "Death was instantaneous, Doctor Watson," he said calmly. "But no visible wounds or blood. Thoughts?"

John threw Greg a dirty look. He moved closer to the body, ignoring Sherlock. He crouched down for a few moments, leaning close. Then he stood and walked over to Greg. "Cyanide poisoning, smells like almonds," he said. "Let the M.E. know, they'll need special precautions for the autopsy." Then he walked out and left the crime scene. He was hardly breathing.

Sherlock was afraid to turn his head. He knew John had left, but he was afraid to turn his head and have it confirmed. He waited for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few moments, and then turned and also left. He walked all the way home without seeing a single thing he passed.

As John walked, Greg called and then simply texted he was sorry. John ignored both. What was Greg thinking? Why would he trick John like that? And now his anger towards Sherlock was on fire again. He just asked about the case as if they were strangers. The thought had John's blood pressure rising again, but his sadness as well. That's how easy it was for Sherlock. In fact, John realised, he'd probably already been deleted from the mind palace. Wait, he'd used John's name, so at least that wasn't true. It didn't matter. John would never see him again.

Sherlock did not turn on any lights in the flat when he walked in. Instead, he moved straight up the stairs, pushed the boxes out of the way, tore down the sheet, and went into John's bedroom. He climbed into John's bed, curled up, and began to cry.

When he eventually calmed himself, he took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of John, still lingering on the sheets. Sherlock needed to see him one more time. He just needed to be in his presence again, however briefly. It's true he couldn't handle speaking or working or living with John -- Sherlock wouldn't be able to regulate his feelings and behaviour for more than a minute or two. But he had to see him again. 

The next morning he went down and knocked on Mrs Hudson's door. "I need John's name off the lease," he said.

"Fine," she said grumpily. "If this is what you really want," she added, looking up at him. "I'll cross his name off."

Sherlock's eyes darted from her gaze. "Surely that's not legally binding," he said. "If he were to take us to court, that'd never hold up."

"John's not taking anyone to court, Sherlock," she said dismissively.

"We need to have his signature," he explained. "He needs to come here and re-sign it, you know, clearing his responsibility. He needs to come here and do it. In front of me -- us, I mean. I need to be there."

"I see," she said. Because she did. She saw straight through Sherlock Holmes. "All right," she said. "I'll call him and let you know," she added as he headed back upstairs.

John slept the worst that night, his dreams all about Sherlock and losing him. He woke up early, staring at the ceiling for a long while before getting up. 

Mrs Hudson thought long and hard about what to do. She rang John.

John glanced at his phone and sighed heavily. "Hello, Mrs Hudson."

"John, hello," she said, relieved to hear his voice. "I was wondering if you'd like to come by for a cup of tea any day soon."

John hesitated. "Maybe we can meet at a cafe. I'll treat," he said.

"Um," she said hesitantly, knowing this would not work at all in a public setting. "I -- um, it's been so cold these days, too cold for my blood. Why not come here? You could stop by after work . . . just an hour, John. Please?"

"What is this about, Mrs Hudson? Please." 

"I just miss seeing you," she said, which was not a lie. "It's not the same without you . . ."

"He kicked me out, Mrs Hudson. I don't want to see him."

She swallowed awkwardly. "I understand," she said. "I meant what I said, though, I do miss you. Keep in touch, all right?"

"I will," he promised. When he hung up he pushed the phone away. 

Mrs Hudson looked towards her door but decided not to go speak to Sherlock right now. She'd let him have one night of an eased mind.

In the morning, Sherlock got to work as soon as he woke up. He tidied the flat, even opening the windows for a little while to get some fresh air in. Then he shaved and showered before getting dressed. He opened his door and shouted down for Mrs Hudson, who quickly came to her own door.

"What's wrong?" she called worriedly.

"Nothing," Sherlock said calmly. "What time is our meeting with John?"

Mrs Hudson sighed and moved to the bottom of the steps. "He's not coming, Sherlock," she said softly. "I called but --" The rest of her sentence went unheard. Sherlock had slammed shut the door and gone up to bury himself in John's bed again.


	6. John Is Confronted

John had been ignoring Greg's messages for a while. In fact, it took Lestrade following him to the shop and pulling the police car in front of John as he was trying to cross the street for them to speak again.

"I'm sorry," Greg said quickly.

John stopped walking and looked over at him.

"I didn't mean to trick you. I just -- it's not right," Greg continued.

John stepped closer. " _He_ kicked _me_ out. Go harass him," he said. "Maybe he'll tell you why because he's told me nothing." And then he moved around Greg and turned to head back to his flat. He was tired. He was tired of being sad. Of being angry. He still missed Sherlock and he was almost tired of that feeling, too.

Sherlock spent the next few nights sleeping in John's bed. One morning he woke to the sound of his phone ringing. He ignored it but it just kept going. He dragged himself down to find it. It was Lestrade.

"A case," he said. "A big one. Can you help?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"I mean it, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "I need you at the top of your game."  
  
"When and where?" Sherlock asked.

When he hung up, he went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He needed to properly wake up and then he'd get ready and go. He carried his mug to the window and stared out at the street. It would be good to go back to work. He had to start living again. He turned on the television and flipped to the news to get some information on the case, but the location was never mentioned. And that's when he realised what was happening: Lestrade had arranged for him to see John again. His words had been a code -- everyone knew Sherlock was at the top of his game when he was working with John. John and he were going to work on this case together. He rushed to get dressed and headed straight over.

As soon as he neared the building, he began scanning the area for John's presence. He didn't see him, but it didn't matter -- as soon as they were in the same room, Sherlock would _feel_ it, feel the difference that only John could make. He stepped into a back office with a smashed in door and located Lestrade, crouching near a desk. Sherlock moved over, fully expecting to see John examining a body. But he wasn't there.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, standing up. "The secretary found him this morning, but the room was locked -- obviously," he motioned to the door. "He's been shot through the back of the head. No weapon --"  
  
"Where's John?" Sherlock interrupted.

"What? Not here," Lestrade said before continuing with the details.

"Is he coming?" Sherlock interrupted again.

Lestrade moved close, pulling Sherlock by the arm away from the other officers. "I said top of your game, Sherlock," he hissed through gritted teeth.

Sherlock stepped back. He felt disoriented, almost dizzy. "I need a cigarette," he mumbled.

"Get yourself right before you come back in here," Lestrade said.

Sherlock rushed out of the building, but he didn't stop to light up. He just kept walking. He wasn't looking or thinking, he wasn't even sure he was breathing. He just kept walking.

Once the room had been searched and a few prints taken, Lestrade realised Sherlock had not returned. "Anderson!" he called down the hallway. "Is Holmes out there?"

But Lestrade already knew the answer. "God damn it," he muttered as he hurried out to his car. He drove as quickly as he could, praying he wouldn't find Sherlock where he knew he'd find Sherlock.

He saw him, sitting on the ground, leaning against the door of an abandoned building. He turned on his car's lights and rolled down the passenger window. "Get in the car, Sherlock," he said, watching as Sherlock stood and moved to the car.

Once he was in, Lestrade said, "I should arrest you right now." He pulled back out into traffic and headed to Baker Street.

"Why?" Sherlock said as he stared out the window. "I've done nothing . . . I've got nothing."  
  
"I'll search you when we get back," Lestrade said. His hand gripped the wheel as he thought carefully. Neither of them spoke for the rest of the drive. Lestrade escorted Sherlock upstairs to his flat and shut the door. "You've got to sort this, Sherlock," he said. He reached his hands into Sherlock's coat pockets but found nothing.

"I didn't --" Sherlock said. "I didn't . . . I'm fine. . . I wish everyone would just leave me alone."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, moving slowly to sit on the sofa. He thought he almost saw a limp. "Jesus, Sherlock," he said. "Maybe you didn't . . . but you thought about it. That means you're not fine. You shouldn't be alone -- there's no crime in needing help. I've helped you once --"

Sherlock cut him off. "I don't need your help," he said. "I don't need . . . anyone."

Lestrade sighed. "Do not leave this flat, Sherlock," he said. "I've got to get back but I'll check on you tonight. Do not leave this flat."

Lestrade turned, going downstairs and tapping softly on Mrs Hudson's door. When she answered, he said, "He's in real trouble. Can you get John over here?"

"I've already tried once . . . he knew, he knew it was for Sherlock," she explained.

"Well," Lestrade said. "I think it's time he knew everything." He glanced at his watch. "I've got to get back to work. I'll swing by and get you after, around . . . let's say eight?"  
  
"Yes," she said. "And what about him?" she asked, nodding to the stairs.

"I'm pretty sure he's in for the night," Lestrade said. "We'll go talk to John and hopefully this will all be over soon."

He returned to the crime scene and finished up, telling Donovan she could take the lead. He rang Mrs Hudson, who was out on the kerb by the time he pulled up. Before they pulled away, he sent a text to John.

_Tidy up. I'm heading over. GL_

Soon after, he and Mrs Hudson were knocking on John's door.

John looked through the peephole, his brow furrowed. Greg and Mrs Hudson. This couldn't be good. Despite his anger, his breath caught. Had something happened to Sherlock? He opened the door and moved to let them in. "Is he okay?"

"Can we come in?" Lestrade said. "We need to talk."

"Is he okay?" John asked again, closing the door when they came in. Why were they both here?

Mrs Hudson looked around the small room, which made her heart hurt a little. She sat down awkwardly on John's bed.

"He's safe," Greg said. "But he's not okay." He looked at Mrs Hudson and then John. "We've known him a long time, John, and we've seen his ups and downs, but we'd never seen him the way he was when you came along." He paused. "You changed him."

"Distracted him," John corrected. "So he deleted me."

"No, John," Greg said. "Far from it . . . he can't--"  
  
"He's in love with you, John," Mrs Hudson blurted out. She glanced at Lestrade. "Sorry, but he is."

John blinked hard, looking between them. "Right. If this is the new trick to make me see him, it's not going to work. In fact, it's awful, really."

"John," Mrs Hudson said. "Think -- just think for a moment, please."

John shook his head. "No, this is ridiculous," he said. "If that were true he wouldn't have kicked me out. He -- it wouldn't be like this."

"Right," Lestrade said sarcastically. "Because we all know that Sherlock Holmes knows how love works, how any emotion works . . ."  
  
"John," Mrs Hudson said. "He's . . . scared to death. I'm guessing he thought out of sight, out of mind, but we all know that doesn't work and now . . . he's scared to death he'll lose you forever."

"Then he can come here and tell me himself."

Mrs Hudson stood up. "John, please . . ." she said. "It's not fair, I know . . . he's not fair, but his heart . . . it's breaking."  
  
"And mine?" John asked, his voice sharper than he meant it. He looked away and rubbed his face.

"But you're --" she started and just rubbed his arm instead of finishing. She looked at Lestrade. "Well, we should go. We just wanted you to know what was actually going on."

Lestrade moved toward the door. "John, you're under no obligation . . ." He patted his shoulder and opened the door. Mrs Hudson hugged John, and then they both left.

John shut the door hard. It was all about Sherlock. Sherlock didn't know how to handle his feelings so he just destroyed, and hurt and everyone was supposed to just let it happen because he didn't know better. Mrs Hudson was right, it wasn't fair.

He went to make himself a mug of tea. Sherlock could act like an adult and come talk to him. What was John supposed to do anyway? Go grovel? Beg for his attention? And then what? What would John tell him? Keep abusing me so you can figure yourself out? No.

He took his mug to his desk. No one cared about John's feelings. He had put up with so much for Sherlock already -- the long nights, the body parts, the shooting, the shouting, the insults. No one bothered to ask why. Even he'd never stopped to think. Why?

"I love him," he said out loud, as if Greg and Mrs Hudson could still hear him. He had fallen in love with Sherlock, and this was where it'd got him.

No one knew what Sherlock was thinking. Sherlock would never have told either Mrs Hudson or Greg what they were claiming. So they wanted John to ask? Fine. He would go to the flat and demand conversation. John knew what would happen: Sherlock would look him in the eye and be forced to say the words: _I don't want you around_. And then John would leave and never look back.


	7. Sherlock Is Confronted

Sherlock was drunk. It wasn't as effective as his previous habits were, but it would have to do. He'd lost a few hours staring at the television before he'd realised he had no idea what he was watching. Then he heard a noise downstairs. "John," he said stupidly and opened the flat door. He saw Mrs Hudson at the bottom of the stairs, but shut the door before she could say anything. He poured himself another drink, but there wasn't enough of the bottle left. He got up and searched through the cupboards, but he'd exhausted everything he had. He swallowed what was in his glass, went to the bathroom, where he bumped his head on the medicine cabinet door, and then stumbled upstairs, collapsing on John's bed. He closed his eyes and moved his arm over to the other side, as if pretending would mean John was really there.

The next afternoon John went to the flat. He let himself in, trying to be quiet. He didn't want Mrs Hudson to know he was here, though he was also sure that any second she'd find out anyway. He went into the flat and paused. He didn't know what to look at first.

His chair was gone. There were a couple empty bottles on the ground and one near the kitchen sink. There was a pile of boxes and a sheet, littering the stairs as he climbed. It was a disaster. He went into his room, following the mess. There was his chair. And there was Sherlock, sleeping in his bed. John poked him hard. "Get up."

"John," Sherlock said instinctively before he realised that this time it was John. John was here. John was home. "You're --" he started but then he was overwhelmed with confusion.

"I'm so angry with you I can barely think straight right now. Get up. Look me in the eye and tell me why you kicked me out. Tell me why you shut me out completely."

"Just --" Sherlock said, trying to sit up in a way he hoped would somehow hide the fact that he was in John's bed. "Just . . . fuck," he groaned, lifting a hand to his head. "My head . . ." This wasn't going well at all. "Why wouldn't you come see me?" he asked as he rubbed his eyes.

John laughed, then laughed louder. It was sarcastic and bitter. "You left me a bloody note and disappeared! Tell me to my face, right now, why you did it. And then it'll be my turn to disappear."

"I -- I don't know," Sherlock mumbled. "Don't be angry with me, please . . ." he added, fiddling with the sheet. He couldn't look up even though he wanted to see John's face.

"Too late," John said. He crossed his arms. "I was . . . devastated. Confused, scared, hurt. My bloody leg started--" He took a deep breath and shook his head. "Explain," he said to Sherlock.

"I got confused," Sherlock admitted. "Because. . . of you and the things you did. . ."

"What things?" John asked.

"Just . . . little things," Sherlock said. "Like when you looked over and things like that."

"Looking over. Right. Why didn't I think to wear my blindfold?" John asked sarcastically. "This was a waste of time." He turned to leave.

"Don't leave me, John," Sherlock said, panicked. "Can't you . . . you know about these things . . . please . . . just don't go."

John stopped. He turned around slowly. "What do I know about? Tell me, Sherlock."

"Love," Sherlock said quietly.

John's eyes snapped to Sherlock's. "And why would you want to know about that?"

"I didn't," Sherlock said. "I've never wanted to but then . . . you made me."

"I made you."

Sherlock nodded his head. "Made me love you," he said.

"Explain, Sherlock."

"I just wanted to be with you all the time and just seeing you . . . made me move closer and then made me want to kiss," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry, John."

"Don't apologise for wanting to kiss me. Apologise for shutting me out."

"But you. . . you know, want a girlfriend. . ."

John rubbed his face hard. "So? Sometimes I might want a boyfriend."

"What do you mean?"

John looked him right in the eye.

Sherlock did not know what to say or do. "I'm sorry I didn't know . . . I'm sorry I did what I did -- I thought you . . . " his voice trailed off.

"The first night we met, when we were at Angelo's, I was hitting on you. When you turned me down, I went on the defensive," John explained. "I . . . tweaked the truth. I don't know why I kept it going. If you had just talked to me, I could have told you all of this."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated. He stared at his hands for a few moments. "But wait -- if you had just talked to me . . . maybe I could have told you all of this. . ."

"If I . . .? You don't get to say that to me. I'm not the one who disappeared, Sherlock."

"I thought you would have, if I'd told you," Sherlock said. "Because of how you were and because how I am. . . "

"You shouldn't have shut me out, Sherlock. You shouldn't have disappeared," he said. He moved closer. "I was . . . it broke my heart," he said softly.

"I thought it'd be easier . . . for both of us," Sherlock said honestly. "But I was wrong. I'm sorry . . ." He felt tears start moving down his face, so he wiped them away and moved to stand up.

John moved closer, reaching up to hold Sherlock's cheeks, wiping his tears.

"I don't know what to do, John," Sherlock said. "I don't know how to make it go away . . ."

John pulled his hands back suddenly. "Oh," he said. Of course he wanted it to go away. "Um . . . how much time do you need to . . .to make it go away?" he asked.

"That's just it, John, it won't. I've tried and . . . it won't," Sherlock said. "I just need . . . maybe a photo of you? It's too difficult to not see you," he said hesitantly. "If you could give me a photo, maybe then I could stop trying to see you and just look at it -- I know it won't be like before because now I have these feelings . . . but then I could just have them on my own . . ."

John moved away from him. "No. I'm not going to give you a picture. If you don't want me around, then it'll be absolute. If I have to lose you, despite loving you, then you will lose me as well."

"Please, John -- wait, what?" Sherlock asked. "You love me?"

"Of course I do," he said.

"But -- why?"

"Because you're . . . you're smart and sometimes you're funny and you basically saved me," John said. "You're handsome and living here with you, meeting you, has been . . . perfect. Up until now." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"John," Sherlock said stepping back a little. "I don't know what this means. . . what are we supposed to do now?"

John blinked at him. "Do you want me to leave again?"

"I never want you to leave," Sherlock said.

"Okay, then I won't. And you won't either."

"You'll come home?"

"If you promise to never pull anything like this again," he said.

"I'll try," Sherlock said. "I just want you to come home and be with me again."

"I've got a bedsit now -- I'll have to figure that out. And I have a lot of things to move back," he said.

"I'll help -- we'll sort it," Sherlock said. "Just come home."

John looked around his room. "It's . . . we have to get this stuff out of here," he said. He looked at Sherlock again.

Sherlock's face flushed. "At first, I thought I could put you away and then . . . I just needed to have the traces of you around me," he said quietly.

John looked around the room again. "I see. Well, we'll sort it out."

Sherlock sat down on the bed again and rubbed his aching head. "Will you stay today?" he asked softly. "We can sort things tomorrow, just . . . will you stay?"

John nodded. "I'll stay," he said. "I want to."

Sherlock stood up again. "I'm sorry for what I've done to your room . . ." he said, moving a little way from the bed. "I'll wash the sheets . . ." he added before exhaling loudly. "Help, John," he said desperately. "Tell me what to do because what I want to do is follow you around for the rest of the day, not letting you out of my sight . . . my reach . . ."

"Look, we'll sort the room later," John said. "We just need to . . .are you hungry? We can get something to eat."

"Of course I'm not hungry," Sherlock said, his face relaxing for the first time since he woke up. "We can order in -- I don't want to go anywhere outside the flat with this headache." He headed to the door but turned and look at John once more. "I'm sorry," he said again and then moved over to John's chair to take it downstairs.

John moved to help him. Once they'd set the chair down in the living room, Sherlock tentatively reached over and set his hand on top of John's. John looked up at his face, lacing their fingers together.

"I do love you," Sherlock said. "I've never felt . . . so at first I wasn't sure but I know now, John. I know."

"I love you, too," John said. "If you're ever confused. . . . just don't shut me out like that again, okay?"

"All right," Sherlock said. He squeezed John's hand.

John smiled softly up at him. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said in a whisper. He closed his eyes, remembering every kiss he'd spent so much time imagining.

John moved closer and leaned up, pressing his lips lightly to Sherlock's. Sherlock leaned in. It was better than he'd imagined. He lifted his hands to grip hold John's arms. "Thank you," he said when the kiss ended.

John smiled up at him. "That was nice."

"It was," Sherlock said. "Maybe we could do it again some time?" he asked stupidly.

"Like now?"

"Possibly," Sherlock mumbled.

John raised his brows, a silent invitation. Sherlock stepped closer, so their shirts brushed against each other. He put his hands to John's arms again, leaned and kissed John, soft and slow. Surely they'd been this close before? Yet never with his lips on John's. It felt so right.

John curved into Sherlock's body, his hands resting on Sherlock's chest.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "Can we go lie down?"

John nodded. "Okay," he murmured. "Is there anything unusual on your bed?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I just wondered if that would explain your new arrangements," John said, motioning to his room.

"No . . . I just wanted to be close to you and the bed was the only close thing left," Sherlock admitted.

John smiled and leaned in for another kiss. "I see."

"Don't ever not be close," Sherlock said. Once in his room, he slipped his arms around John and pulled him down on the bed. "God I've missed you," he said. "It's been exhausting, missing you." He closed his eyes and it felt like he was falling so he opened them, but then yawned.

"It was rather awful," John agreed.

"I might sleep, John, I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I just feel . . . relaxed in a way I haven't for a long time." He stayed close to John but rubbed his eyes. "You won't leave if I sleep, will you?"

"No, I won't leave."

Sherlock took a long inhale and exhale as he closed his eyes again. Soon enough he was asleep or at least in an empty dreamy space where everything seemed right and he didn't have to think or worry.


	8. The Problem Is Solved

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was surprised to see someone next to him for the split second it took his brain to remember everything that had happened in the last few weeks and months. "John," he said softly.

"Hi, love," John smiled at him.

"Did you sleep?" Sherlock asked, reaching over and touching his face.

"No, I wasn't sleepy," he murmured.

"What are we going to do now?" Sherlock said. He pushed himself up a little. "I don't even know what time of day it is."

"It's night," John said. "I need to get some food, okay?"

Sherlock looked over. He didn't like the "I" in that sentence. "Are you going to go?" he asked.

"I'll see what I can scrape up with what's in the kitchen," he said as he sat up and stretched.

"John, there's nothing in the kitchen," Sherlock said, relieved. "Order something -- just don't leave."

John pulled out his phone and rang the Chinese. Sherlock rushed to use the toilet. When he returned, he said, "Look, I feel a bit sick and disgusting and need to shower. You had the food sent here, right? If I take a shower, you won't leave before I get out, right?"

"Only to answer the door," John promised.

"Fine, that's permitted," Sherlock said, trying to add a little smile. Still he rushed a bit gathering some clothes and then heading to the bathroom. While he was there, he realised his empty bottles littered the flat and he was embarrassed by everything John could see. His head was still a bit sore, even though his body as a whole felt better than it had in a long time. The panic and tension had gone. After his shower, he put on clean clothes and came back out, glad to see John had not left.

"No delivery yet," John said. "Feel better?"

"I do," Sherlock said. "Sorry everything here -- me included -- is a bit of a wreck. I just haven't felt able to . . . but I'll tidy up tomorrow."

John nodded. "That's okay." When the door sounded he went to get the food, hurrying back up.

Sherlock put the kettle on and made two cups, bringing them into the sitting room. He curled up on a corner of the sofa. "Did you get anything for me?" he asked when John returned.

John nodded. "I figured if you didn't want any, I'd take it to work."

"Thanks," Sherlock said, taking the food from John. He ate a few bites but his stomach felt a bit fragile. After a few minutes of silence, he asked, "Does Mrs Hudson know you're here?"

John shook his head. "I didn't see her on my way up."

"Are we going to tell her you've come home, for good, I mean?" Sherlock asked.

"We can. I'm sure she'll figure it out."

"Are we going to tell her about the. . . love part?" Sherlock asked. "I mean, if you still feel that way and all."

"She already knows that part," John smiled.

"What?" Sherlock said, looking over quickly. "What does that mean?"

"I think she's known for a long time," he said.

"What? Why?" Sherlock asked. "About me? That I love you?"

John nodded. "Yeah. And probably that I love you," he said.

"How?" Sherlock asked. "I didn't tell anyone."

"Some people just know," he said.

"Did you?" Sherlock asked. "About me or about you?"

John shook his head. "About you, no. I was surprised. I knew about me."

"Both surprised me," Sherlock said. "And I'm the clever one," he added with a little smile. He put his food on the table. "Thanks for that," he said. "You can take the rest of it, if you want to." He tucked his legs up on the sofa. "Are you going back to your new place tonight?"

"No, I told you I'd stay. I want to," John reminded him.

"Can I move closer or are you still focused on feeding your face?" Sherlock teased.

"You can move closer," John said, putting his food down on the coffee table.

Sherlock slid down the sofa and leaned, somewhat awkwardly, against John. He sat silently for a moment and then said, "I want it to be how it was . . . except with the love part. It doesn't quite feel like it was and I'm not sure what to do."

"I think it will take a little time," John said.

"But --"Sherlock started and then thought for a moment. "John, you know me -- you know these things aren't my area of expertise. What does that mean 'take a little time'? How should I be? What will we do during that time? Please . . . I need you to be specific."

"Sherlock, it just means that I have to tread carefully," John explained. "I believe that you love me, I just have to know that you won't try something like that again when you get scared."

Sherlock looked over. "I am scared, John," he said quietly. "What I feel . . . is so much. It's so big." He put his hand on the sofa closer, but not touching John. "It's love. . . I love you and I want us to be together."

"I love you too, Sherlock. And I want us to be together," he said, covering Sherlock's hand and squeezing lightly.

Sherlock moved a little closer. "I won't do that again, shut you out, John, I won't," he said quietly. "It was the hardest thing I've ever done. I thought it would be easier but it wasn't . . . it was worse. I won't do it again. . ."

John leaned over and kissed him softly. 

"I like that," Sherlock said softly. "I want that . . . to be something we do."

"Kissing?" John asked. He leaned in and did it again.

"Yes, kissing," Sherlock said and moved closer, giving John a long, purposeful kiss.

John brought his hand up and laced his fingers into Sherlock's curls. Sherlock was overwhelmed with a desire -- no, a need -- to be physically closer. He pushed into John, deepening the kiss and sliding his hands around John, grasping, pulling, needing. John followed his touch, arching his whole body into Sherlock's, pressing closer as they kissed.

"John," Sherlock exhaled. "It's . . . so much."

"Do you want to stop?" he asked softly.

"No," Sherlock said. "I do not want to stop."

John nodded, kissing along his jaw line now. Sherlock let his head fall back slightly as his hands roamed over John's body. "John," he mumbled before lifting his head and bringing their mouths together once more.

John licked into his mouth, pressing so they fell on the sofa, John settling between Sherlock's legs.

"Jesus, John," Sherlock said smiling wide. "I'm about to explode."

"Not in your clothes," he said, tugging at Sherlock's shirt.

"God," Sherlock said, as eager as he was surprised. He lifted his shirt over his head and pulled on John's shirt. He wanted to feel skin to skin. John sat up and pulled his jumper and shirt off, leaning back down to kiss him. This time when he arched out, his skin touched Sherlock's and heat erupted over every nerve.

Sherlock slid his arms around John again, roaming up and down his bare back and arms. "I don't know . . ." he mumbled into kisses. "I don't know how much of this I can take."

"Exploding, right?" John smiled, moving to start opening their trousers as well.

"John -- " Sherlock said. "Really?"

John nodded and then stood. He took the rest of his clothes and helped Sherlock do the same, before climbing over him again. He gripped them both and stroked together.

"John, please, I love you, I do," Sherlock said, his body moving awkwardly in response to John's touch. He reached down and just gripped John's hips, following their movement as well. He lifted up off the sofa and then grabbed John's head with his hands. He crashed into his mouth, kissing him hard. He mumbled, "I'm going to come" and then he did, spilling over John's hand and his own stomach.

John gasped, watching him come before he followed, moaning Sherlock's name loudly.

"John," Sherlock sighed, pulling him down and wrapping his arms around him. "I do love you," he said. "I want this . . . I want this to be us."

John buried into his neck, panting as he came down from the high. "This is what I want too..." 

"Don't ever go," Sherlock said. "I promise I'll try to be . . . better, just promise you'll never go."

John nodded. They lay quietly for a moment as they caught their breaths.

"We're a bit of a mess," Sherlock said softly.

"We'll clean up before bed," John said.

"I want to go to bed now," Sherlock said. He grabbed for his clothes, slipping his trousers on. "It's strange . . . what we did. Unusual, I mean."

"How?" John asked, smiling softly as he stood and helped Sherlock up.

"We've never done that . . . with each other, I mean," Sherlock said. "It's new, obviously . . . forget it -- I don't know what I'm saying."

"It's okay, I understand," John said. 

"Do you think we'll do other unusual things . . . things like that but other new things as well?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm sure we will," John smiled. "I want to."

"Good," Sherlock said. "Are we going to sleep in the same bed?"

"Yes," John said.

"Yours or mine?"

"Yours," John smiled.

"Come on then," Sherlock said. He reached out his hand to John's.

"Let's clean up first," John said, pulling him into the bathroom. Sherlock checked himself in the mirror. "I look horrible," he said, pulling faces at the glass. "Yet, I feel better than I have in weeks," he added with a little smile over at John.

John smiled as he ran a cloth under warm water, reaching over to clean off Sherlock's stomach first.

"This is another unusual thing," Sherlock said, smiling down at him. "I like this as well." He lifted his hands to John's shoulders and massaged them gently. "You're sexy, you know," Sherlock said. "I never said before or anything, but I thought it." He let one of his hands move to John's chest.

John looked up at Sherlock, putting the cloth on the sink. "You're not so bad yourself," he murmured. "Let's go to bed."

As soon as Sherlock got into his room, he moved quickly to the bed. He watched John come in and walk around the bed. He grinned stupidly the whole time.

"What is that look for?" he asked, grinning himself as he climbed into bed.

"I've pictured you coming into my room like that before and now you have," Sherlock said. "You've come home and now you're going to sleep by me." 

John nodded, scooting closer to him. "It's good," he said.

Sherlock stroked John's face lightly and then leaned in to kiss him. "It is," he said. "When I open my eyes in the morning, you'll be here, right?" he asked.

"I'll be here," John said.

"Always?"

John nodded. "Always."


End file.
